Under a Dark Summer Sky (27 page)

He straightened his shoulders. In the end, he had realized that having someone to blame helped no one. It didn't bring them back, all those who had been lost. What mattered now was this group of people who stood quietly, fanning themselves in the heat. They still had so much work to do, to rebuild and restore the community. And some things would never be the same, could never be rebuilt.

Ken and Moses arrived. Henry strode to greet them. “Thanks for coming, fellas.”

“Wouldn't miss it,” said Moses.

“This is Jimmy's uncle,” Henry said. “Dwayne, this is Ken and Moses, from the train.”

“He was a good kid,” said Ken and shook Dwayne's hand. “I'd have been happy to have him in my crew.”

“Thank you for coming,” said Dwayne. “And thank you for… Jimmy always loved trains. Here,” he said. “He'd want you to have this.” He handed Ken a faded, stained John Deere cap. “There was this one time when he—hey, come back here, Roy!”

Roy and Nathan had climbed onto the monument steps and were taking turns jumping off. Doc picked up a giggling Nathan. Henry could tell from his expression that his back was bad again.

“Is everyone here yet?” Leonard asked, unfolding his speech.

Jeb strolled up, a fat cigar between his teeth. “The important people are. Hey, Boss.” He had yet another new girl on his arm. He had found work in a Miami cigar factory and was on track to become a supervisor. Although Lemuel had survived the storm, according to Jeb, he was lost in the confusion and chaos that followed. Henry and Jeb never saw him again.

It was time.

Dwayne stepped forward to leave a scarf on the steps, patterned with honeysuckle. Zeke placed a single bright blue feather, gave a stiff salute, and disappeared into the crowd. Doc placed Jenson's barometer, its glass panel fractured, its gauge forever frozen at the impossibly low reading of twenty-six inches.

Henry waited his turn. No trace of Selma had been found. And yet there were times, usually at sunset and sunrise, when he felt her presence so strongly, right by his side, that he had more than once turned to talk to her. Missy did not find this strange one bit, said she had long conversations with Selma all the time. She had told him, “When so many souls get taken all at once like that, bound to happen that one or two fall out the bucket. And Selma, she ain't gonna move on till she good and ready.” The old kitchen table from Selma's house had washed up on the beach, legs broken but top intact. Selma's initials were still visible on the underside, right next to his. He and Missy ate dinner on that table every night.

He knelt at the monument steps and placed his hand against the stone. It was warm, almost skin temperature. He said quietly, “See you later, Sunny.”

The slow trickle of survivors kept coming. Each person left something of meaning to the dead. Soon the piles of mementos spilled down the steps and onto the ground. And still they came.

Henry looked at Jeb and Franklin and remembered his boys on their homecoming parade up Fifth Avenue. They had been so proud, so bursting with hope and promise. Sonny. Lemuel. Sammy. Tyrone. Li'l Joe. All gone. Gone too were Sick Bay, Two-Step and Carl, Stan and Tec. And Trent Watts, who was never found. Hundreds more. Far from home, in a place they never wanted to be.

He took a crumpled, faded photo of a little boy in a cowboy hat from his pocket and studied it for a long moment. Then he placed it alongside the other tokens on the monument.
Rest
in
peace, Max Hoffman.

Missy rolled her chair forward. She leaned over to set Mama's hat on the monument steps, grayish blue with red flowers. Then she sat there for a long moment, head bent, eyes closed. It was strange: ever since she and Nathan were taken by the wind, she'd had the feeling of moving through the air whenever she closed her eyes. Terrifying though it was, while the wind carried them farther and farther out to sea, there was a kind of freedom to it, unlike anything she had ever known.

And when the wind had finally dropped them on that barren sliver of sand and she lay there in a broken heap beside Nathan, who was even too worn out to cry, the fear had drained from her. She used the very last bit of her strength to drag them clear of the water. There was no more. She had done everything possible and found some comfort in that. The pain receded. It was like a blessing to feel the sun again and hear only the quiet lap of the waves. She had laid her cheek on the warm sand and closed her eyes and was at peace…so much so that the rumble of the Coast Guard spotter plane engines, faint at first, then loud overhead, had sounded like the hurricane coming back to finish its business with her. Nathan had screamed in terror at the noise. It was only when a seaplane landed later that she had understood.

Since that day, every time she needed to feel that sense of peace again—and there had been many after she first opened her eyes to find Henry by her hospital bed—she took herself back to the tiny atoll in her mind.

Nathan clambered onto her lap. He was growing into a sturdy, bowlegged little boy. The bond between them, already strong, had been forged into iron by that terrible night. Now, when the bad dreams came, he called her name, not his mother's. Hilda was saddened, but she understood that no one except Missy shared those memories with him.

Missy still saw him every day, and each visit always ended the same way. The only story he wanted to hear, over and over, was how he and Missy had flown way up into the sky like birds, very far away. When she got to the end, he would say the final line with her, which never varied: “And then Missy and Nathan went home again together, safe and sound.”

He bounced now on her useless legs. “Wanna play cars!” He liked to ride along with her in the chair and pretend he was driving. He still had trouble understanding that she could not get up and chase after him. She caught him staring at the chair sometimes in an angry confusion, like it was personally responsible for spoiling his fun.

Henry went to remove him, but Missy said, “Let him stay.” She rested her head against his neck until he grew bored and ran off to find Roy.

Henry leaned down and said, “He be too big for your lap soon.”

“I know,” she said and stroked his hand where it lay on her shoulder. According to Doc, the damage to her insides, and the surgery that followed, meant she would never have a child. When it happened, she was too overwhelmed with trying to adjust to everything that had changed in her life. It was just one in a long list of losses. But after she and Henry married, the hard, cold truth of it had landed like a boulder on her heart. Even with all she had to be grateful for and Henry by her side, it had pained her worse than anything, even the loss of her legs.

It was only when Henry outlined the idea for the school that the fog of hurt had started to clear. It would be filled with children, he had said, children who needed what she could give them. At first, the doors of her mind had stayed firmly closed, bolted shut by her misery, but over time, he had painted a picture with his words, of these children learning from books, in a real classroom, even one day going to college. As he had spread the plans on her desk by the window, his face all excited, his voice was like a rope dangling down into the pit where she had fallen. She only had to grasp it in order to climb out. And so she did, hand over hand, one agonizing inch at a time.

It felt like so long ago—and like it had only been five minutes. Something strange had happened to her sense of time that night. Before the storm, she could always tell the present from the past. It was like there was a solid wall that kept them separate from each other. No longer. That solid wall had become more like a fisherman's net, allowing the past and present to mingle together constantly. One minute, she could be sitting at her desk, working on a lesson, and the next be back there again, up to her armpits in dirty water, dragging Violet and Abe toward the station. Or she could be having dinner with Henry, and then Mama would appear beside her, shelling peas and complaining about the price of flour at Mitchell's store. There were occasions when she felt so adrift on the current of time that she had to clutch the wheelchair to keep from losing her bearings completely. The only constant, the only thing that anchored her, was Henry.

She looked up at him now, squinting into the glare, and knew he read her thoughts.
We
somewhere
now.

The sun was hot on her shoulders. Henry shifted position so his body threw a cool shadow across her. A hush fell over the crowd.

“Ready?” Leonard asked, reading glasses on his nose, ready to remove the drape. The band leader was poised, baton raised, forehead beneath his cap beaded with sweat.

Missy surveyed the assembled locals and visitors, standing patiently in the humid sunshine. The scores of the lost shimmered among them. She heard their whispers in the breeze. They crowded closer, waiting to be remembered.

Doc and Dwayne nodded at Henry.

“Yes,” said Henry with a glance at the vast, indifferent blue sky. “Time to begin.”

1. Henry has always had a plan for his life, which the whims of history ultimately force him to abandon and just live in the moment. He finds this very difficult, Missy less so, because her expectations are so low. Which way of living leads to greater happiness? And which do you use in your life?

2. Both Missy and Henry feel that they have failed in their lives. Does this do more to draw them together or push them apart?

3. A key theme of the novel is the question “What makes us human?” At several points in the book, characters mention the difference between humans and animals, e.g., the townspeople view the veterans as subhuman, Henry comments on the difference between the human beings and “giant cockroaches” like Two-Step. Then we see how the storm makes some people abandon their humanity, while others rise to the occasion. What do you think makes us human? And is it just a “thin veneer” as Henry thinks? Or does it go deeper?

4. The storm pushes everyone to the limits of their endurance, where they find out who they truly are. What extreme life event have you experienced, and what did you learn about yourself as a result?

5. Another important idea is that of perception versus reality. Dwayne allows his prejudices to blind him to the evidence of Hilda's attack. Several times, Henry comments that “people see what they want to see” rather than what is really there. Do you agree with this? How much of Henry's view has been affected by his experiences?

6. How much or little has the treatment of traumatized military veterans changed since 1935? Do you think it's possible that such a group could be so treated by today's officials?

7. Hilda worshipped, and was worshipped by, her father. How has this affected her relationships with other men? Do you know any women whose lives have been similarly influenced?

8. The opening chapters show each character getting ready for the Fourth of July barbecue. Compare this scene to the epilogue, where we see each one preparing for another important event. How has each been changed by the storm? What have they gained and lost?

9. Selma believes that she has summoned the hurricane with her voodoo spell. Other characters place their faith in a higher power who will heed their prayers. Does the universe care about us? Do things happen for a reason?

10. There are clashes between tribes, of townspeople and veterans, between black and white people, between the wealthy and the poor—all groups who mistrust and dislike the other. Jimmy's outlook changes when he is on the run with Henry. Have you ever experienced a radical change of view after getting to know someone very different?

11. There are several parallels between the veterans' experiences of the hurricane and the battlefield. How are they similar
and different?

12. What is your first impression of Dwayne? And how do you feel about him at the end of the book?

13. If you were Missy, would you have gone on the run with Henry?

14. Huge events can be triggered by the smallest incident. One example is when Mabel starts the rumor that Henry is Roy's father, simply because she is piqued. Things then quickly spiral out of control. Has something similar ever happened in your life?

15. Missy believes that people's fundamental natures don't really change, regardless of outward appearances. Do you agree?

16. Missy risks everything to save Nathan; Henry returns to the storm zone rather than save himself; the veterans have lost limbs and sanity in the service of their country. In contrast, Nelson won't even save his dog. Do you know where the boundary of your self-interest lies? What would you do to help a stranger if it meant personal risk for you?

17. Both Selma and Hilda have very emotional relationships with food. Discuss the very different reasons for this.

18. How much has changed between the races in America since 1935? And how much remains the same?

What do you love most about writing?

Those (very) rare moments when you hit on the perfect combination of words, and it resonates through your whole being, almost like poetry. I also love it when the characters surprise me. And I love it when readers talk about the characters like they really exist, because they do for me!

Which book has had the greatest impact on your life and writing?

Birdsong
by Sebastian Faulks. I read it when I had been living in England for several years. Being American, I knew nothing of World War I and its effects on a whole generation of Europeans. I saw the veterans parading every year on Armistice Day but had no understanding of what they had been through.
Birdsong
opened my eyes and my mind to an incredibly important historical period that is almost completely overlooked in American education. I then went on to read Pat Barker's Regeneration trilogy, which deepened my interest in the period. So, in a way, it was destiny that I ended up writing about veterans of that war—and having it published during the centenary commemorations. I feel very privileged to be even a small part of it.

What attracts you to historical fiction?

I absolutely love having a framework of real events that I can populate with characters. I love feeding in the little period details carefully, to avoid the kind of heavy-handed exposition that you get with some historical fiction, e.g., “She picked up the Regency faceted crystal goblet and remarked on its typical pattern of grapevines.” It adds an extra layer of complexity to what is already a very complex task, but I much prefer it to writing contemporary fiction. I'm completely in awe of writers who wrote these kinds of books without the help of the Internet for research. I can't imagine how much longer it would have taken to check every fact and answer every historical question, such as “When was the tetanus vaccine invented?” The Internet is the historical writer's best friend.

What is one thing you know now that you wish you knew when you started your writing career?

I used to think that I could only write if I could carve out large chunks of dedicated time. You hear a lot of writers say that it's essential to write every day, even just a little. My life isn't like that. I realized that I would have to snatch any small opportunity, rather than waiting for long stretches to become available, if I wanted to finish writing a book.

Do you write to a plan?

Only in the broadest sense. I have in mind a series of important scenes to include and a spreadsheet where I list each chapter and what it will cover. But when I actually start writing, unexpected things happen. The characters say and do things that I hadn't planned, so I need to stay flexible the whole time. For example, I may have a general idea of where the book ends but no precise idea of how until I reach that point and it reveals itself to me.

What research or preparation did you engage in before writing this book?

Because I didn't set out to write this book, the research took a circuitous route. I intended to write about the lynching of Claude Neal in Greenwood, Florida, in 1935, which I read about in the
St. Petersburg Times
, because I thought it was so outrageous that no one has ever been prosecuted. Then the magic of Google led me to the Keys History website,
www.keyshistory.org
, where I found the story of the hurricane and the veterans. I found myself moved so profoundly and ashamed that I knew nothing about it, although I was a Florida native. I felt compelled to write about it, almost like I didn't have a choice.

Which character do you feel most closely connected to?

Henry is my favorite. Although it's traditional for female writers to have more connection with their female characters, I felt Henry's story more intensely than some of the others. I could picture every step of his journey and how it made him feel—the initial euphoria when the war ended and then the terrible, crushing disappointment that destroyed his hopes. Also, I enjoy writing action scenes more than emotions, and male characters lend themselves more to that. Of the female characters, Selma was my favorite. I'm really fascinated by her. She's had a tough life, and I loved introducing a hint of magical realism.

Did you create your cast of characters at the beginning, or did they evolve with the writing?

That's another interesting thing about historical fiction. Some characters are entirely imaginary, but others are needed to play real roles, even if their personalities are entirely fictional. From the outset, I had Missy, Henry, and the Kincaid family in my mind. Dwayne and Doc were also fairly well-formed. The real events required a camp superintendent and the relief train crew. Interestingly, I didn't intend to develop Selma into a main character until I got some really useful feedback from a writers' website where I posted the first two chapters. The reviewers all wanted to know much more about Selma, so I developed her further to include her voodoo skills. It was a very constructive and positive experience, and I highly recommend it to other authors.

Why don't you reveal the father of baby Roy?

Throughout the book, I want the reader to feel the same emotions as the characters, in real time. Dwayne undergoes a huge transformation during the story, and the pivotal realization is that the identity of Roy's father doesn't matter. All that matters is his love for the child. I want the reader to feel, along with Dwayne, the frustration of not knowing the father's identity and then understand that, actually, it isn't the point.

The hurricane seems almost like a character itself. Is this intentional?

Yes. I invested the storm with a personality, partly to tie in with Selma's voodoo beliefs and partly to explore how the characters see themselves in relation in the universe. Are there higher powers, which punish and reward us? Can we influence them with prayers or spells? Or are we alone, with nothing out there but indifferent, empty space? And although the storm was real, I use it to reveal what happens to people when they are pushed to the limits of their endurance and find out what really matters to them. The storm is an agent of change for all the characters, which is often both good and bad.

Where do you get the names of the characters?

This is hard to answer in a way that doesn't sound very affected, because the names come to me on their own. I picture the character, and their name appears. If it doesn't sound quite right, for the period or the setting, then I tweak it, but generally the first name that pops into my head is the one that sticks.